Say It Somehow
by Maddy Soup
Summary: 'We'll play a game, you'll trace it on my skin—do it any way, but let's begin.' Follows the Reaping at the 70th Annual Hunger Games, through until a little bit after. 2-Shot. Shamelessly Odesta.


Summary – 'We'll play a game, you'll trace it on my skin—do it any way, but let's begin.' [2shot, Odesta]

HoneyNote: Part 1 of a 2-shot. First chapter will be from Annie's POV, and the second, from Finnick's. This first chapter might be a little bit dark, but it'll be nothing compared to the next chapter, which features a lot of...blah. In writing I project my issues and I LOVE IT. :D

If any of you are fans of my other stories...I'm sorry. There's no excuse. I'm just...when something starts coming for me, it just doesn't stop, and this story literally gushed out of me in a single afternoon. Sooooo yea. I LOVE FINNICK x ANNIE, though perhaps not for some of the reasons other people do. It's not that I think Annie is a weak person...but compared to Katniss she's a total bundle of mush. Also I've been doing a lot of work here with eighteenth-century artwork, so if you know a lot about that and the theories of the humors and Ophelia you'll totally get some stuff in the next chapter.

Sorry, point is: people may have a susceptibility to madness, so I don't think Annie-babes was totally all there before the Games.

|Begin Rant| And this is my own personal take, given we only see her for like 2 seconds and we never really hear her talk or anything. Which, I'm not gonna lie, is KIND OF A BUMMER. I could go on for DAYS about the "poor mad girl back home" thing and how FUCKED UP it is to give someone a name and a face (and a sheet to wear, or sometimes other people's hand-me-downs), make her this major plot point and then DENY HER A VOICE. Because she could have been so much cooler if she was allowed to speak for herself. Finnick loves her so we're supposed to just accept that and assume there's got to be substance there, even when it's not clear that there is any? But whatever. As a feminist, I just don't understand why Annie Cresta was built up in Catching Fire to be like the greatest person ever, catching the heart of one of the most super-cool characters in the series, and ALL SHE DOES is act as Finnick's mute arm candy/baby carriage in Mockingjay. |End Rant|

Disclaimer: It's not mine, preciouses. I'm not creative enough to make a story. I just like to make fan fiction.

* * *

**Say It Somehow**

By M.

* * *

1. Annie

"Annie Cresta."

A naming is the first thing that happens when you're born. Somebody looks at you and, despite the fact that you are defenseless and slimy and screaming, loves you, profoundly, and wants to keep you. Once they're sure you're not going to stop breathing, they wrap you up and hold you close and give you a name.

Sometimes it comes right away—they've been planning, you see, to name you after somebody who's important or dead or something. Or sometimes it changes, because they didn't expect you to have your mother's chin, or you don't quite look like a Sophie or an Antonæ. Sometimes you look like an Annie, and I guess that's what happened for me.

A name is special. It's something that, after being given to you, becomes your call marker, synonymous with _you_. The phonemes meld together and you don't just own them. They own you. No matter how hard you try, when you hear them, they signal something inside of you. That you are being called. That you, to some degree, matter.

I've always liked my name. It's a good, solid name. Simple enough that people wouldn't expect much out of me as they might a Sylvia Cortez or a Marta Calhoune. I'm no Charlotte or Alexandria or Theresa. I'm Annie. Just Annie.

But right now, everyone is turning to look at me with these horrible pitying eyes. They step away from me like I'm a pariah. I can't move, because my body is made of lead. In the single utterance of a few syllables, a name can be given with all of its meaning and tenderness and love. And just as easily, it can all be taken away.

* * *

When I was in school, Theresa Sherwood asked me to dig up a worm in the soft sandy-soil on the other side of the yard, and when I brought the little creature to her, pinkish brown and a strange mix of slimy and sticky in my palm, she snatched it and showed us how to turn it into bait on a hook she nicked from her father's tackle box. She slid the sharp side into the worm and pulled it over the hook, the way you might put on a doll's sock, and it writhed and writhed as its insides were torn up, and I cried for almost four hours after the fact without stopping. The teachers told my parents that I was a sensitive girl, and perhaps not suited for the life of a fisher, because I had too much 'empathy'. They said I need to be hardened for the life before me. They knew that in a few years time, my name would be added to the reaping, and if I were ever called as tribute for District 4, I would most certainly be picked off.

My district partner is only a year younger than I am. He has red hair and freckles splayed across his fair face, and when he smiles it is a little crooked. He's too lanky and awkward now, but in a few years, he'll be a stone-cold stunner. I'd like to tell him as much, but the words don't make it to my brain because as he stands on the podium he wets himself, and, embarrassed, doesn't shake my hand when we're expected to. Some of the other boys in his year laugh, grinning with the brightness of safety in their stature. This boy is a disgrace, I can feel the shift of disappointment in the crowd. We will not have a victor this year. Pity.

And suddenly there's a shirt wrapped around the fifteen-year-old's waist, and two thick arms tie it up quick and tight. Finnick Odair smiles like it's the best day of the year and clasps a hand on Owen Flaherty's tiny quivering shoulder. "Don't worry about it, sport," he says in a quiet voice that's so smooth you can't help but want to like him. "But let's look brave for the pretty girl, shouldn't we?"

When he looks up at me, it's everything I love about home in the color of his eyes—the way the ocean looks just after daybreak, when the sky to the west is still darkened but the sky above the horizon shines blinding white-gold and blue with the freshness of dawn. But I can tell he looks a little disheartened, and I can't particularly blame him because honestly, _look at us._ A boy older than Finnick was when he won five years ago who literally just peed himself and a sixteen-year-old girl, taller maybe by an inch—athletic perhaps in build, but I have always been told that there is a softness in my eyes.

We don't stand a chance.

Mortality is a difficult thing for a person to grapple with—many of the kids in the district are taught from an early age that a young and heroic death should be well-fought to the last breath, and it is nothing to fear. But I have always been different in this regard—I cannot wish for death, not for myself, not for anything. Every year I feel a piece of me die when I watch others from my district die, so far from home and love and the sea.

"Hey there, gorgeous," Finnick says, loud enough for everyone to hear. "You come here often?"

Some of the people in the crowd laugh. For them, the Reaping is a social event, something that everyone looks forward to because we always put in a good show. I feel my face flame. Everyone knows the reputation Finnick has with the Capitol girls, and even though he's only a little older—nineteen, I think—than I am, his insincerity is both well disguised and potent at the same time. It doesn't annoy me so much, because a seventy-year-old woman comes up behind me and gives me a warm smile.

"Don't let him get to you," she says, smiling so that the crooks of her eyes are all lines and crinkles. She's old enough to be my grandmother twice over, but I'm astonished by her beauty nonetheless. She is _stunning_. "It's just a game, after all."

And just like that it hits me—we are going to die, this boy and I, and there is nothing that Finnick or Mags can do about it.

* * *

Owen and I don't eat on the train to the Capitol. His eyes are brown and earthy and constantly overflow with thick, silent tears. Finnick tries to ease the tension in the air by asking him about his favorite things—does he prefer fishing to sailing, hooks to spears, storms to sandcastles? But the lad is distraught, and rightfully so. I find myself confused and angry, because there were other boys in his age and above who were far more prepared than he was for the challenge. But nobody was wiling to step in for him this year. Perhaps they wanted to see him go, wanted to place sad little bets as the sad little boy, a runt of his litter I'm sure, gets sent to his death. And me, I realize suddenly—maybe they're making bets against me, waiting to see how long I last, how many people I take out on my way down.

The thought makes me shudder. I don't want to hurt anyone, not even now.

Mags isn't on the train with us. She's been around for so long that she has a lot of important duties to attend to in addition to mentoring us. I wish I could talk to her. I sense a goodness in her, something noble despite the fact that she herself was a volunteer many years ago. She chose to compete in the Hunger Games during the very beginning, and I want to know her a little bit better before we die.

It's only a three-hour ride into the Capitol, and once we see the great city looming on the horizon Owen bursts into a fresh set of sobs, and makes a run for the bathroom. I glance out the window and watch as the city fast approaches. I glance at Finnick, who I realize with a start is watching me with a bored look in his eyes.

"So, what do you think? Have you ever been to the Capitol before?" he says, raising an eyebrow. I shake my head, and glance back out the window. It really is a sight—stone structures imposed between great mountains. It is the paragon of engineering and architecture; a city of man, built for hubris or gods. But I don't like it.

"It's too far from the sea," I say, and it's the first time I've spoken directly to him. I expect him to scoff or laugh, but something haunted creeps into his gaze and half of his face tugs up in a grin.

"Yea," he says, and seems to exhale. "Couldn't agree more."

That night, after being cleaned and dressed in costumes that make us look like mermaids jutting out of our sleek chariots and paraded around for the Capitol's viewing pleasure, I hear Owen screaming from his bedroom, just across the hallway from mine, and the sound is so horrible that it brings tears to my eyes. I wait awhile for the nightmare to pass, but it doesn't, until at length I'm on my feet and padding across the way.

I knock twice, and when the horrible noise grows too loud for me to stand I just enter. Owen is tangled in sheets and on the ground, and the noise that's coming form his mouth is just—_awful_. There's nothing like it, and without thinking I rush to his side, gather him against my chest like a mother, and crush his tiny frame against mine. My murmurings fall deaf under the sound of his screams, which grow louder and louder. The door is open and I won't leave him to close it, so instead I press my lips near his ear and sing the lullaby all the mothers in District 4 know.

"_Pale and fair, beneath the water sleeping,_

_With silver eyes, the willow watches weeping,_

_All the children, o'er their souls are keeping,_

_Come back to me, in the sea._

_Happy days, flying by,_

_Calming waves, bluest sky,_

_Easy now, rest abide,_

_Come back to me, in the sea."_

Slowly, Owen's cries become shorter and less horrible, until his eyes are open and he is watching me intently. I'm not the best singer—sometimes I sing a little off-key, but I know all of the songs, even if singing them makes me feel a little self-conscious. When I try and stop he throws his arms around my necks and begs me to keep going, and so I do, stroking down his soft boyish hair.

"_Deep below the gentle sleepy tide,_

_ Trails the moon's light, where our hopes reside,_

_ Happy always and forever we'll abide,_

_ Come back to me, in the sea._"

"Stay with me," he begs, and I feel his tears warm my shoulder. "Sing me to sleep."

I gather him up and pull him into the bed, and tuck him into the covers. I sit on the edge beside him, stroking his face and singing until sleep catches the corners of his eyes and drags him under. Even after his breathing has evened I continue awhile, just to make sure he'll be okay. I never thought that I could kill a person, but in this moment I know for sure that I can't.

At length my body aches for rest and I slowly rise. As I do, I hear a soft sound from out in the hallway, and my whole body freezes. I don't know if I'm allowed to be here, or if I'll get in trouble because somebody might think I'm trying to kill Owen before the competition is even started. I hurry into the hallway just to see a tall shadow disappear into Finnick's room. I think for a moment it may have been imagined, until I hear the distinct click of the door being shut and locked, and for some reason I feel so sorry for myself that I could just cry. Wisely, though, I decide instead to sleep.

* * *

At breakfast, Finnick and Owen are nowhere to be found, but Mags is waiting with a scone in her mouth and a smile on her face.

"Join me," she says, and I do so, eagerly. In having forgone food yesterday, my stomach is eager to be filled, and I pluck the freshest fruits from an enormous tray and help myself to some water. My hand hesitates over a fruit that's shaped like a jagged brown oval, about the size of my fist.

"These are my favorites," I say softly, and pull the fruit down. "Did you know, when you slice it open, it's—"

"Shaped like a star?" Mags finishes for me, and gives me a smile that is thankfully not condescending. "Yes, little green stars. They're delicious."

I slice up the star fruit and split it between us, for which Mags is grateful.

"Right. So. Why don't we discuss a potential strategy for you?" Mags says. She would be a wonderful resource for anyone in the games, because she has seen so many—her age holds experience, which is vital to the survival of anybody. I have zero hope inside of me that I will win, but perhaps I can delay the inevitable for a little while. "What are your strengths?"

"I can…swim?" I manage, after a brief pause of thought. Truth be told I've never compared myself to anybody, so I don't even know if I'm very good. All I know is that I love to swim, and dearly. "But I don't know if that will help."

"It may," she says encouragingly. Her eyes are a faded sort of green, but they are ceaselessly kind and strong. "But you may need more than that. Owen's father is a fisherman, and he knows how to fish with a spear. Can you?"

My stomach nearly lurches at the very thought. I eat fish, but, almost hypocritically, I don't take any part in killing the fish. I can prepare them, surely—I can debone them and clean them of their scales and make them edible. But even the thought of killing them makes me woozy.

"No," I manage, and busy myself with more fruit. For the first time in our conversation, my voice is one hundred percent sure. "No, I can't."

"Annie," Mags says softly. "You won't just give up, will you?"

"Where is Owen?" I ask suddenly, eager not to think about the idea of me having to murder anything, be it fish or otherwise. Her mouth hardens into a tight line, but she doesn't answer me, or comment further. I want her to know how much I want to appreciate her for even showing up, but when I try and voice it my words just halt, as they always do. I think back to the Games three years ago, and to my brave and strong brother, partnered up with Theresa Sherwood and her deadly hooks—

-and I suddenly can't picture any more. It all goes black and I have to tell myself that Mags is speaking to me, but her words don't make any sense for a second. Then it all hits me and makes sense again, and I pull myself out of my stupor, and just start nodding. She wants to teach me about her weapons, and I want to live, but every time I think about fighting I think about that stupid worm on the hook and how hard it fought, even as Theresa held it between her fingers, even as she pushed it onto the hook, little by little, how it wriggled and writhed and how I _felt its pain, the same way I felt Erik's pain as he collapsed to the ground with red patches from where the little pins hooked his body and tore the flesh away, one eye gone as a final hook tears out the vein in his jugular—Owen's awful horrible sound as he screams and claws at invisible demons—felt Theresa's pain when the boy from District 7 lodged an axe in her back and how she screamed, and writhed backwards, trying desperately to dislodge the great metal object in her spine—the pain of a stubbed toe and a smacked head and a wooden stick to the back is enough to send you rolling and writhing and—the worm on the hook—the worm on the hook—the worm on the hook—_

The world comes back to me again, and Mags is looking at me with a hurt and horrified look on her face. I realize I'm holding my ears, pressing them against my skull and trying to block out her strategies and her words as she tries to make me into a killer, because I can't. I just can't.

Defeated, I finish eating in complete silence, but she keeps watching me, as if expecting me to turn into a rocket and zoom off to the moon. I nibble on some more star fruit and some jellies, and by the time Mags finally opens her mouth to say something the door to our suite opens and Owen and Finnick enter. Owen looks well rested and better than before, with a level of bravery in his eyes that makes him look less weak. He's been talking to Finnick, I reckon.

"Alright! Time for your first day of training!" he says, and I leave the table without another word. I don't look at Owen, but I can feel his eyes on me, and I don't have the strength to meet them.

* * *

Finnick has an effect on the girl tributes the likes of which I couldn't have imagined prior. Sure, he's handsome, devastatingly so, but it's still a shock when the eighteen-year-old girl from District 2 practically throws herself at him, chest out and charm on so thick that her giggles sound more like shrieks. He plays with them and flirts and teaches Owen to do the same, while I sort of stand there looking silly and feeling quite dull. Owen is starting to win some hearts—from the boy who wet his pants on the podium to a mini-Finnick, I'm sure he's going to play this for all he's worth. It doesn't leave me with much of an angle, but I don't care much, so long as he's not screaming anymore.

At one point, Mags has a word with Finnick and both their eyes glance to me, and he looks disappointed again. I know I shouldn't care about trying to impress anybody, but I can't help the feeling of shame that fills my heart.

Once training has begun and the mentors are ushered out of the room, a boy from District 7 points me out immediately. He's handsome enough, and has teamed up with the other Careers from 1 and 2 already. He approaches me with a casual sort of saunter, and when he leans over to speak to me he's so close that I feel his breath against my ear.

"Rumor has it you're a stone-cold killer, fish-face," he murmurs, grinning. "You and the pup."

He smells like woodchips—too earthy for me, not nearly enough salt on his person. But I don't know what else to do so I just let him press his lips against the bottom of my earlobe, and I shudder. It's not particularly pleasant or unpleasant—it just is. And I know I will let him, because maybe I can form an alliance with them. If we aren't targets, maybe we won't have to kill each other.

"…I'm Annie," I say, because I don't know what else to tell him. I can't lie to save my life, but he takes this as an affirmation of sorts, and I don't dare to correct him. He throws an enormous lumberjack arm over my shoulders and steers me towards the careers.

They assume I'm one of them—maybe a little too curvy for their gladiator-style rings, but they sense an athleticism about me, and I stay quiet and let them come to their own conclusions. The boy from District 2 makes a pass at me but District 7 has his arm over my shoulders, and the meaning is clear, though I'm not sure what he thinks will happen over the course of a week-long killing spree. Then again, I guess maybe he's just being young, as all boys are at times. The thought makes me sadder than I anticipate. I sense a hardness from all of these people, and a coldness from the girl in District 1 the likes of which I have never felt before. But I love them despite it. They all have such a beauty inside of them, and deep down, a goodness, chipped away by years of being told that this, their destiny, would bring them honor and glory. But I see nothing glorious or honorable about death, and because of this I let District 7 nuzzle me into the crook of his arm a little while longer, until it's time to start training.

I keep far away from the weapons, and instead spend most of my time learning how to start fires. When I see District 7 coming for me again, I quickly pretend not to notice, and head right for the edible plants station. I am terrible at first, but the lights flash on the game and I find the memory skills to be therapeutic. When I play, I could be in a school somewhere, and not preparing for the Games. It could be for anything, and so I spend much more time than is necessary playing around by myself.

The girl from District 1 joins me after awhile. I think she'll push me away at first, but instead she simply watches, and when our eyes meet she gives a nod. I can't stop myself from smiling, and then turn back to the game. She occasionally reaches over my shoulder to correct me when I'm about to get an answer wrong, and clicks the proper one. Once, when doing so, she squeezes my shoulder, and I'm not sure why but I think she might understand me well.

When the mentors pick us up at the end of the session, Owen brags about how the boy from District 1 taught him a cool archery trick in exchange for a simple knot. Mags smiles encouragingly and chats with him. Beside me, Finnick is quiet, and his somber mood is unusual, because normally the atmosphere around him is bubbly and light.

Suddenly he puts a hand on my shoulder and holds me back while Mags and Owen head off. Mags doesn't seem to notice, or if she does, she's careful to keep the conversation with Owen going so that he doesn't realize how we've lagged behind.

"...What was all that with District 7?" he says, and his voice lacks all of the humor I'm used to. I twist to look up at him, and from this angle, I can see the strong line of his square jaw.

"…What was what?"

"You can't fall in love with the other tributes," he snorts, and glares down at me as if I'm a child. "You can't believe them when they try and win you over like that. They want to kill you in the end, you know."

"I know," I say, cocking my head to the side. "I'm not stupid, you know."

He flushes, and I can tell that no, he didn't realize that. He huffs, clearly irritated, and starts away from me. For the first time since I've been here, I feel angry—angry that he was so easy to give up on me, angry that I am not stronger and will never make Mags or my parents or my district proud, that he thinks I can be won over with a charming smile and a close embrace when he doesn't understand that I love _everyone_ equally, everyone in the world, because they are all beautiful, even the ugly ones, all gifts of life and it sounds so stupid but it's the way I feel, and I wish for one fucking second that everyone would appreciate the wonder and humility that I feel whenever I realize how complex and difficult we all are. That he would understand that I understand how guilty he feels for giving up on us already, but how he has seen better fighters than Owen and I go right to our deaths.

But he forgets—there were stronger and older tributes in his year, as well. He won mainly because he won the crowd, and that's no easy task. But it means that he doesn't know everything.

"Is there…are you…is something wrong with you?" he finally manages to say. He's half turned towards me now, and looking me, and in his eyes I remember home again. The feeling is so overwhelming that I want to cry, but for once, I don't.

"Why?" I say, and I want to sound angry, but it comes out as sad. "Because I don't thirst for the blood of my peers?"

"People don't just accept death," he states, doubtless. "They don't. You won't, when the time comes to it. And you'll regret not learning to be a better fighter when that happens."

I want to tell him that it's not a matter of accepting death onto myself, but hating that it is a fact for all of us, an unnecessary part of our lives that is imposed on us in our prime. I want him to know that I can eat a fish, but I can't put a spear through its body to get it, and I especially can't put a worm on a hook. Because somehow all life cries out to me as sacred, and it's just not in me to end that.

Instead I just say, "I'd rather die hating myself than live that way."

It must strike a horrible nerve in him, because his face freezes and for a second his eyes look like a boy's, just like Owen's. And then he fills with rage.

"You don't—" he starts, and then cuts himself off. His teeth clench and I see the strength in his jaw working as his eyes search mine. He is _beautiful_, it hits me suddenly, but not in the same way that Mags and Owen are beautiful. He's in another league entirely.

And then, for some reason I can't fathom, he reaches up to touch my face. I flinch, but he doesn't move his hand. Instead he pushes a strand of short and straight brown hair behind my ear, and his calloused fingers leave a trail of warmth where they touch my skin. He gently strokes the length of my cheek with the back of one finger, and then pulls away just as suddenly.

"Dinner," he mutters, and walks with a hand on my upper back, guiding me back to our quarters. We both notice that he leaves his hand there, but neither of us mention it.

* * *

Mags and Finnick take equal turns giving Owen and I advice. I see the redheaded boy growing a little with each piece of information. How to find shelter. How to climb trees. Mags is a master of hooks and Finnick is an expert at making knots, and they teach us about different resources that could come in handy out in the arena. I'm practicing a complex net that my dad used to use when we were children, but in the middle of it Finnick joins me at my right side, sitting close enough that our hips press together.

"Not bad," he says. "Teach me?"

"Nope. Family secret." I smile a little as I say this, but I don't look up.

"Aw, now _there's_ a pretty face!" he says teasingly, and leans over to get a better look. I playfully look away and he twists, trying to catch my eye, but I keep avoiding his gaze until he tickles me into submission and between peals of laughter I finally match his gaze, biting my lip a little.

His eyes are so calming, just like the ocean at home, and once again I feel a little sad that I will never see home again. I hope that the arena is in the ocean—not because I think I will win, but rather, because I want my last minutes to be near the sea. I want it to be the very last thing I'll ever see, and I can see it in his eyes, right now.

Mags clears her throat, and I realize he's just looking at me, too, with this really strange look on his face. His strong hands release their hold on my waist and he sits back beside me, eyes locked on the net. But Mags doesn't look upset—in face her face looks mildly satisfied, and she pulls Owen a little further away towards the enormous pile of food just waiting in our kitchen, to show how the stems of apples can be combined with things like thorns to make effective fishing tools. Finnick watches quietly as I deftly tie the knots, a little more subdued than his playful self just a moment ago.

"So," he says, and clears his throat. "What do you think of the Capitol?"

"You already asked me that," I say quietly. "On the train. Remember?"

"Yea, well, that was before. What do you think of it now that you're here? Have you been seduced by its charms?" he adds this last bit with a wink that I'm sure has broken a thousand hearts before mine. It makes us both smile kind of stupidly.

"You spend all your time here, so I wouldn't want to offend you."

"And how would you do that?"

"It's not my thing," I say, and match his gaze again. "I prefer the sea. I've never been away from it for so long."

He take a moment before answering, twisting his head in a slightly showy display that he might be considering his options.

"Perhaps so, but there's more than mackerel for dinner. Plus the fashion! And when the Games aren't happening they have lots of different contests and-"

I can't stop the giggle that comes bursting from me, though I'll never be able to explain why I find this moment so funny. I feel strangely giddy—light, almost. I can see the picture behind my eyes so perfectly—one year, my classmate Eileen got a copy of a magazine spread featuring Finnick Odair, and hung the centerfold in her room. He was naked from the waist up, revealing his toned muscles, and was laying back on a manufactured sand dune. He wore these billowing khaki pants with green and pink stripes—all the rage of the season, according to the article—with a shark's tooth around his neck and green and pink eyelashes glued above his real ones. His lips were also painted green and pink, and overall I couldn't help but think that he looked a little ridiculous, but Eileen kissed the picture goodnight every night.

I can't tell Finnick this, and I realize there are tears in my eyes I'm laughing so hard. He's watching me laugh and I have to say something, so I blurt out, "I prefer your eyelashes _au natural_."

And he's shocked for a second, as if I have taken him completely by surprise and he isn't used to it. This makes sense, and I want to hit myself—we weren't talking about his face, and literally, my mental train of thought is so foreign to him I can see him trying to figure out why I would say such a thing. Still feeling playful despite it, I throw the half-completed net over his head.

"There. How's that?"

"…It's great," he manages, and this time his smile is gentler, so I can see the dimple in the side of his cheek. "I'd expect nothing less from a fisherman's daughter."

"Do you know my father?" I ask, suddenly and desperately curious. We were, after all, in school together for almost two years, and he was the same age as my brother, though to be honest, I'd never noticed him until the Reaping. I was only eleven, after all, and I remember weeping for both him and his district partner, just like I did every other year, because the weight of a violent death was heavy to bear, even just as a spectator. But as for his personal life…I never knew anything about it, except that he spends most of his time now in the Capitol. Unlike the other victors in the Victors Village, he has made a life here.

Finnick gives me a funny look and I flush.

"Right. I went away for a second. Sorry."

Just thinking about my father is going to make me upset, and he catches my attention suddenly by throwing my net back onto me, and swoops me suddenly over his enormous, rock-hard shoulder.

"Look Mags, I caught an Annie-fish! Better start a fire—they're best served fresh," he calls across the way, before I have even a second to be sad, and I flail a little in protest, but he just digs his fingers into the sweet spots in my waist and I laugh so hard that it hurts. It's the happiest day in my memory, and it's a shame that it's tainted by circumstance, but for now I won't let myself think about it.

* * *

The nightmares come again for Owen, and I return to sing him to sleep. This time he clutches my hand and presses kisses to it, which is a little embarrassing, but I let him do it, because it makes him feel better. Tonight I feel Finnick's presence outside of the door, so I keep singing the lullaby, over and over, until my tongue is tired and all I can do is hum. Eventually it becomes too much to bear, and I sit on the floor with my head close to Owen's, our hands entwined. I doze off rather suddenly.

When I wake up, I'm in my own bed, and it is very late in the morning. Finnick is waiting for me, and in the rays of the ten-o'clock sun, his tanned skin and blonde hair look more radiant than ever. He looks torn when he sees me.

"Good morning," I say slowly, wondering if I'm in some sort of trouble.

"You shouldn't do that," he says, and I know instantly what he's talking about. "It's every man for himself out there. Err, woman," he corrects quickly, and flushes. I've never seen him so flustered in my life, not on the television, where he smiles and winks and makes the girls of the Capitol swoon. Then again, I guess he doesn't have to instruct them on how to not die, so our relationship is a little different. "Sleeping now might save you energy in the arena. Why waste your time?"

"…The sound of his screaming," I murmur in a quiet admission. "To be honest, I comfort him because I'm selfish, and I can't…I can't stand it…how can you sleep through it?"

I refuse to let on that I know how he sleeps through it—mainly, that he doesn't—and instead cut myself a star fruit. I hold some up for him, and in an unexpectedly playful movement he swoops down and captures the fruit—as well as my index finger—in his mouth. He moves slowly, tongue expertly laving at the bottom of my finger, and once he's done he lets out a soft noise of approval.

"So sweet," he purrs with a wink, and comes to my side. It's like somebody's flicked a light switch on him, and suddenly he's the person from the cameras whom I've been watching for years. Winking at the tributes, standing before the districts with Capitol women on his arms, always a different one, in commercials and advertisements and on television shows. It's not the rough and playful boy from yesterday—this Finnick is sensual in a way far beyond his years, less self-assured and a little guarded. All spectacle and no substance. He picks up my free hand and strokes my palm with his thumb, and I'd be lying if I said it didn't feel strangely pleasant.

"You know, I told Mags to take Owen this morning," he says in a voice I've heard a thousand other times before on women far prettier than I am. "I wanted you all to myself, you see. I hope you don't mind."

And of course a part of me is foolishly flattered, even though I tell myself I shouldn't be because he's just making fun of me, but a greater part of me is aware of the hatred in his eyes as he speaks, the cold, hard disgust that is building up. I know this is a trick, but I'm not yet sure why or how, so I just keep still and let him do as he pleases.

"Is there anything you'd like to do with all this free time?" he murmurs, and I've never noticed before, but his teeth are perfect and pearly white and in a perfectly straight line. "Something maybe you've never done before, and want to do before the Games…?"

"I'm not a virgin," I say blatantly. I wonder briefly if this kind of thing is against the rules, if I should tell somebody about this, or if Finnick does this to all his female tributes. He looks surprised, and then that look morphs back to his predatory smile.

"Wouldn't have figured, a pretty innocent thing like you. You're just so…_pure_."

"What does being a virgin have to do with being pure?" I challenge, eyebrow raised. And for a moment he's at a loss for words, before he barks out in laughter, and when he clutches my hand it doesn't feel quite as fake.

"I suppose that could be true," he says, eyes shining. "But not everybody believes that."

"Sex is the purest thing a person can do," I tell him honestly. "As long as it's done in love and not out of constraint or malice."

This too has struck a nerve with him, and he's determined now to get past it. After all, I suppose many a girl might flock to be in my circumstance, to see if the rumors about his skills as a lover are true. But what he doesn't understand is that I will love him the same way I love Owen and all the others without having to resort to the physical kind of love. I will love him because he is alive and warm and breathing, because he is imperfect and complex, just like every other person in the world. I will love the way he makes me forget the bad things, like yesterday, when he tickled me so much my throat was sore, and when he called me an Annie-fish and after, when the whole day felt lighter. I will love him as I loved Theresa Sherwood and all of the others in my class, and my designers from the games, the same way I loved Erik and the strangers I have never met and the worm—the worm—the worm…

"Let's see how pure we can be together," he says smoothly, snapping me out of the fix, and pulls his chair closer to mine. I'm not the smallest girl in the world, but he is enormous, and when he crowds around me I feel like all the space is his. He lets go of my hands and puts his own on either side of my legs, and when he leans forward I'm hit with the scent of some fake sea, like he's wearing perfume to make him smell more like the ocean, but it's not natural. It's not that perfect smell of salt and sea spray that I remember so fondly from District 4, the way that sandy calves and sun-kissed hair smells after a long summer.

"Annie," he murmurs my name, and I like the way it sounds in his voice, more of a song than a name. "Come to bed with me."

My heart beats impossibly faster and I gulp, unable to stop the heat from filling my face. It takes every ounce of willpower I have to speak.

"Do you want me?"

"Yes."

"Do you _really _want me?"

"I really, _really_ want you," he lies right to my face, and I can't take it anymore. I grasp his shoulders and hold him at arm's length away from me, but he mistakes the move and reaches for my waist to bring me onto his lap. I pull away, shaking my head. He is very confused at this point, but before he can speak I press a hand over his mouth to keep him quiet.

"I know what you're doing. You're trying to give me something to live for, and it isn't going to work. I won't kill. I won't do it. I'm sure I'll fight and I'll scrape and I'll become a monster once I'm faced with the challenge, but you can't make me change my mind until it's before me. I won't prepare, because if I don't, I'll be less dangerous to everyone else. So stop it. _Enough._"

The moment is over—he makes a small disgusted sound and his chair screeches as he pushes himself out of it.

"Annie," he says, and his voice is trembling. So I smile and tell him the words Mags told me the first time we met:

"Don't worry. It's just a game, after all."

* * *

Finnick doesn't seem to like me much after that.

He takes me silently down into training, and when he comes to greet us after it is with Owen's praises on his lips, not mine. If Mags notices the strange air between us she doesn't say anything, but I see her glancing at Finnick out of the corner of her eye with a curiously still expression. I have spent the afternoon with the District 1 girl, who doesn't speak, and stands at my shoulder, pointing out different roots to eat. Because of her presence I am not seen as a weakling, and I'm so grateful for it that I wish I could say it in words. But they fail me, as always, and instead I just end up trailing behind my mentors and Owen, whose confidence is soaring as the days go by.

It's bolstered especially when the tributes are given our ratings. All I do to impress the judges is dive into a pool of water, where I hold my breath for a minute and a half without coming up for air. When I do, nobody is watching, and so I simply leave. I was given a rating of a 6, which was just about average. Owen, who has been using his training time to transform into a fighting competitor, gets an 8, and everyone is so proud of him.

But at night it's the same, and I come to him and sing the mariner's lullaby. And again, against the odds, I can feel Finnick's presence outside Owen's room. Maybe he likes the song. Maybe he hasn't heard it in a long time. Maybe, just maybe, it reminds him of home the same way it does to Owen and I.

And tonight when my eyes fill with those tears of overwhelming grief, they are with thoughts of Finnick, and whatever it is that makes him live hating himself.

* * *

For the interviews with Caesar Flickman, I am clad entirely in white, with accents of green and blue. Mags instructs the design team to put flowers in my hair, and by the end I remind myself almost of a bride. There is a sheer gold-tinged net design that they wrap around one shoulder, that cinches at my waist and makes me look very grown-up. The team clips little fake seashells onto the net and Finnick stops dead in his tracks when he sees me. I give him a little shrug, and he turns away, as if embarrassed that I even acknowledged him. I don't want to feel silly, but of course I do. Owen looks a little bit like a pirate in a puffy white shirt and black trousers. He looks much older, and the transformation has done him well. District 7, dressed in a brick red shirt and black slacks, saunters over and slings that same arm around my shoulders.

"My, my, aren't you a dream come true," he murmurs, and presses his face next to mine. This time, he gives a nibble to my ear, and I flinch a bit, because it hurts. I can tell by the way his arm tightens around me that it was intended to. Finnick is at my side in a second—he puts a hand on 7's shoulder and coldly asks him if he's got somewhere better to be. The lumber worker huffs, clearly pleased at the reaction he's gotten, and turns back for one last nip before he spins around back to his partner. I'm staring at Finnick, but he doesn't look at me. We've caused a little attention amongst the others, but some of the crew for the televised event come rushing by, and we know that soon we'll be interviewed. Mags stays behind, but Finnick hurries off.

I watch them all on the little screen backstage. The girl from District 1 is enigmatic and cool, but with such a power that would undermine the boy's clear physical strength, if only he weren't so confident. The camera zooms towards the crowd and I catch a glimpse of Finnick. There is a forty-year-old woman wrapped around his arm with feathered eyelashes and clad entirely in cotton candy pink. She points enthusiastically and I have just enough time to catch the look of disgust flash before his eyes before he covers it with a cheeky, boyish smile, and the moment is so fast I'm almost positive I've imagined it. Things start to come into place suddenly, though I'm too stunned to understand them completely.

And then it's my turn—I'm in front of the lights and I can't do anything but stare at Caesar's strange haircut. He sits me down and the crowd, not too interested in me, goes quiet.

"My dear Annie," he begins. "You look radiant."

"Thank you."

"How are you finding things here in the Capitol? Have you settled nicely? We were very impressed at your entrance. You look like a mermaid."

There are a few cheers from the audience, and I suppose I must have struck a positive chord with a few people, but not enough to win over their hearts. I nod, mind blank and throat suddenly dry, because most of these people will see me dead in a week's time. They will see my body, lifeless and cold, maybe in pieces, and they will maybe see Owen's body, and District 7's…

"Now, your individual judgment scores weren't too stellar. What do you think you could have done better?"

I look out into the crowd, where Finnick is. The woman leans over and her lips are so close to his ear, and I can sense his involuntary flinch, but he leans closer. His eyes will not meet mine, and I want to cry, because all I want in this moment is a reminder of home. I close my eyes, and try to hear the sea.

"Annie, poor lamb, you're shaking like a leaf!" Caesar says, almost sweetly. The crowd coos and applauds me. "Relax, little dove. You'll be okay."

I wouldn't be the first person to burst out crying onstage at these interviews. A few years back there was a girl who tugged on the heartstrings of the whole crowd by sobbing, saying how desperately she wanted to win, how much her cats would miss her if she died. She was one of the first ones killed off. I don't have anything to live for like that, nothing to fight for that won't be awakened in me when I go into the arena and become a monster. But for now I take a breath and give a little smile.

"I will be," I say in a confident voice, and everyone seems a little disturbed by my sudden change in tone, but Caesar laughs it off and says, "Ladies and gentlemen, from District 4, Annie Cresta!"

The rest are a blur, until the boy from District 7 takes the stage, and Caesar, ever the entertainer, goads him into flexing his massive muscles.

"So, Daevid," he says, leaning close for intensity. "What is it about you that makes you stand out from the other tributes, do you think?"

"I mean, aside from my charming appearance?" he says, and leans casually against the arm of the chair. The audience eats it up, clapping and cat-calling him.

"In all seriousness," District 7 says, and his tone shifts to command attention. "I am going to be a victor because I am not only willing and ready to fight. I…_ache_ for it. With every fiber of my being. I cannot wait for tomorrow, for the power and the bloodshed."

He has an ugliness, District 7. All people do, but I hadn't been so keen to see his before. And I realize now that I will be one of his main targets.

* * *

Tonight is my last night on earth.

Owen takes my hand and pulls me into his room before I can even say anything. He lies down in the bed and waits for me to sit before he puts his head in my lap, and puts my hands on his temples. I start the song again, when suddenly tears start flowing down his face.

"This is it," he murmurs as I hum the melody. "This is the last time you'll sing to me, Annie. This is the last time you'll sing me to sleep."

And it's true. I won't deny it, I'm not that cruel. Suddenly he gets onto his knees and he grasps my face in his small hands, and tells me that he loves me so much, and that he wants to kiss me, and if I would be alright with it. And I'm not there, not really, anyway, because all I can think of is how Finnick might be listening, and—and would he care? Would he mind that I'm letting Owen kiss my lips and then my neck, and my shoulders, down my collarbone…

I realize that I mind. He's just a child, and just because he's put on a little lean muscle and is only a year younger than I…but it…it doesn't change the fact that he is going to die young tomorrow. And I love him, too, in a way. So I keep my mouth shut, and I let him love me in the only way he thinks he knows how. It is over quickly and I have the suspicion from his clumsiness that he has never done this before. When he is spent, he curls up and goes to sleep without my lullaby, and I hope this has been enough to keep him quiet all night.

I don't want to go into the hallway, because I'm scared that Finnick is still there, but when I finally muster up the courage to, he's not there. His bedroom door is open a little, and I push it open, trying to silently peek inside. He's not there, and his bed is undisturbed. I don't think he's been here since at least this morning.

My chest hollows cold. There is still a stickiness of Owen between my legs, but I want to hold Finnick. The possessiveness takes me by surprise, because I have only known him a small amount of time, but it is his eyes that I want to look at me, his hands I want to comfort me. And I hate the fact that he is probably out in the city with some strange woman who likes his painted lips and fake eyelashes, probably loves the way he makes her giggle when he tickles her, elicits smiles and the warm feeling like hot marbles dropping into her stomach and even lower.

But she won't see the ocean in his eyes. I crawl into my bed and hold myself, face into my knees as silent sobs wrack my body. Because Owen and I are going to die tomorrow, and nobody else will be there to see home in his eyes.

* * *

Mags takes Owen and I down to the launch pad, where the other tributes are all parting with their mentors. Every flash and shadow makes me think that Finnick will suddenly appear, all sun and smiles and comfort that everything will be alright, even though it clearly will not be. But it's always just sunlight catching another person, or a machine, and never him. Mags holds us both close and goes through a checklist with us. Don't move until the games begin. For us, try to snatch an outlying rucksack if we can; otherwise avoid the cornucopia at all costs. Despite our smallness, we are still Careers, and the others have made nice with us during training, so team up with the Careers pack if we can. "District 7 will probably look for you, so be sweet to him," Mags adds carefully to me. Owen hasn't made eye contact with me all morning, but he walks tall, and ate his share of food this morning, circumstances notwithstanding.

We're just about to board the hovercraft when I hear my name, and I turn around, knowing that my ears did not deceive me but that I have to brace myself for disappointment, just in case. Sure enough, it's Finnick, and he runs out to us dressed in a suit and looking downright presentable in the most attractive way. He breathes heavily and Mags gives a knowing smile to him. First he ignores me, despite having called my name, and speaks quickly to Owen.

"Don't kill each other if you don't have to," he says carefully. "You know that's how it works. You only kill your own at the very last minute."

"I know," Owen says, and offers his hand to Finnick to shake. The victor does so, and ruffles his head, and then Mags is dragging Owen towards the craft. It gives us some privacy.

There isn't much time, but neither of us are willing to speak first, so for a lengthy, awkward moment we just stand there, swaying a little, wasting our final precious moments away, until he notices that I'm shaking, until _I _notice I can't stop, I'm so scared, _so _scared, and—

"No, no, no," he says, and grabs my hand. He pulls me back into the bunker and behind a bunch of crates, so that nobody else will see, as the tributes are still trickling in. "Annie. Annie, look at me."

The sobs threaten to pour out of me with every beat of my heart. This is it. I am about to face my death. How many breaths do I even have left? My lungs cannot inhale enough air, yet they're inhaling too much, so I'm getting dizzy. Hyperventilating—I'm hyperventilating.

"Annie," he says sternly, and he grasps my face in his enormous, too-hot hands, and I can feel that he's as still as stone. He forces our gazes to match and I see that same color that always brings me home, always makes me feel okay. He wipes away my tears and for a moment he looks so heartbroken that I wonder if he will really miss me when I'm gone. And suddenly he presses his lips, hot and wonderful against my forehead in a rushed, fierce kiss. And then he pulls away only to crush my body to his, and I can feel his nose just above my ear, and he strokes my short hair for a second before clutching the back of my neck with his hand.

"Come back to me," he grits out through clenched teeth—the words in the lullaby, only he doesn't sing them, just says them over and over again. "Don't go away. Don't…I need you to come back to me. I need you to. I can't…I just…you need to come back to me."

He's gone as suddenly as he's appeared, but I swear I feel a hot wetness on my hair where his cheek rested, and for a minute I just let the last warmth I will ever feel engulf and overwhelm me. I memorize behind my mind's eye the exact shade of his eyes, which blaze brightly in my head, and I hear his voice, thick and sad and bittersweet. I feel for the first time like he _wants_ to believe in me, like he wants to believe that I can somehow, despite the odds, make it out of the arena in one piece. _"Come back to me."_

I love him for giving me warmth, and the sight of home. I love him so much that I let myself whisper his name before I realize they will not appreciate me being so delayed. I take a deep breath and steady myself, and with my head held high I head towards the hovercraft. But I'm not really there—I'm in Finnick's arms and for just one little second we aren't here but a thousand miles away in District 4, where the days are long and when they're over the bonfires along the sand give light, and everything smells salty and sweet.

I'm not there when they put a tracker inside of me.

I'm not there when, strapped in and across from me, District 7 blows me a kiss, and looks at my neck like he's itching to snap it.

I'm not there when I rise up from underground into the arena, which hasn't got an ocean, _hasn't got an ocean_, no, no, I'm not there, I'm with Finnick, and everything is okay.

I'm not there when I grab the first rucksack I see, and Owen joins me, protective and hoisting a javelin like it's a new toy. I'm not there, so I don't smile, even when he asks what's wrong and pushes my shoulder.

I reappear when the girl from District 1, the girl who helped me with the edible foods game, steps behind Owen, grabs his hair by the scruff, and holds it back. I'm there when she looks right into my eyes, her own eyes black as coal and wide open and filled with a sort of delight as she sticks a knife into Owen's neck and, ever so slowly, slides it across, pressing in. I am there as his blood spurts out onto my face, hot and thick, and I am there when I am screaming, because Owen's eyes are lifeless and they roll back and he's _just a boy, he's just a little kid—the willow weeping, he's a worm on the hook, a worm on the hook, a worm on the hook, _but then I know I must be somewhere else, so I run, and I know I will never be anywhere else ever again without seeing the life leave that child's eyes, just as I am haunted still by Erik, and Theresa, and Eileen's poster of Finnick and the worm on the hook, the worm on the hook, _Owen's concerned face and District 1 as she severs his head from his body with a sick, satisfied—worm, worm on a hook, worm on a hook—Pale and fair, beneath the water sleeping—Owen Flaherty loves me and I stood there while she took his life away, while he loved me, he's dead, everything is fucked, everything is hate, everything is evil and it's me, now, it's me on a hook—Owen screams and I cannot make it go away, I can not sing it away, I cannot be not there._

* * *

__Honey: PHEW. This literally happened in one afternoon. I'm in the middle of writing my proper papers and without even thinking about it I opened a new document and...this is the result. x_x I guess creativity comes in gushes, right? ^^;;

Anyway. Part 2 is still under construction, but it'll be up soon.


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